


A Taste of Darkness

by IamtheOther5am



Series: Throne of Glass ficlets [3]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamtheOther5am/pseuds/IamtheOther5am
Summary: A long, angsty Manorian fic. This takes place after the events of Empire of Storms, so spoilers lay ahead.





	

Dorian Havilliard was exhausted.

A week had passed since the events on the sand dunes of Ellywe; since Aelin, since his friend, had been whipped and broken all over again, and entombed inside an iron coffin. There had hardly been a moment to let those events sink in, before he had set off on the backs of the wyverns with the Thirteen, heading north towards the Wastes. Now, sheltered inside a rundown castle on the edge of the former witch kingdom, those thirteen witches stood shoulder to shoulder with him around a large circular table. 

They’d been talking and strategizing for three solid days, morning and night, trying to decide how best to take back their lands, and help Terrasen, Aelin, Rowan…and Dorian himself. There was so much to do. But now he wanted, no, _needed_ sleep.

He shifted his weight and stifled a yawn.

The past few months had been a blur. There had been no time to think about how his life had gone so spectacularly off course; the foolish guilt over his father’s death, Sorcha, Chaol’s injuries…

The Valg prince that had hijacked his body and run riot, torturing, killing, and revelling in it all. His fingertips drifted unconsciously towards the scar around his neck, a permanent reminder of the horrors.

But then she caught his eye. Manon Blackbeak, with her irises of gold and hair of brightest white, smirked at him from across the heavy slab of weathered oak. A tiny hint of a smirk, unnoticed by her clan, meant for his eyes only. Manon Blackbeak…his witchling. She held his focus, her eyes piercing his soul as he dropped his hand. His heart pounded. He was alive.

A spark of terrifying electricity had hit him the first time they had met. Back when he was a slave inside his own body. She – this witch – had possessed in her the kind of power that made the blackness inside him cower and tremble in her wake. And when the path was clear, all he could think about in that brief meeting was how much he’d never been with one of her kind. Manon Blackbeak. Created from ancient blood, possessing such strength, appearing to offer him nothing in the way of comfort, only a body to do with whatever he pleased…

Asterin Blackbeak said something beside her, and both Manon’s and Dorian’s focus were drawn away. The golden-haired witch pounded a fist on the table and spoke rousingly about something or other. He didn’t know. He didn’t much care either, right now. He wanted to get out of here. He needed to sleep and clear his head.

But his eyes drifted back to the leader, just as her red lips parted and she responded to her Second, to her Thirteen.

He wanted _her_. He watched as she drummed her fingertips on the table, and he saw a flash of those iron nails. The power she wielded thrilled him. That same power that she so willingly yielded to him. He wanted to run his hands all over her. His hands that dripped magic; ice, fire, _anything_ he desired. But he desired nothing but the witch. He wanted to touch every inch of her bare skin, wanted to be pressed against her, be as close as could be, when she gasped his name.

He _had_ to get out of here.

He sent an icy breeze across the table towards her, rippling her hair just enough to give the impression of a natural occurrence, and her focus was pulled right to him.

He arched an eyebrow and whispered through his raw magic, _I’ve had enough for this evening_.

She folded her arms and dropped her weight to one hip. A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. She could hear him.

 _I’m going to my room, and if you’re not there before the candles have burned out_ , he leaned forward, placing both hands on the table and sending plumes of magic towards her, _I’ll be one_ very _disappointed king._

She blinked slowly, and he could’ve sworn she sent flutters of gold back to him as he withdrew the magic.

With that, he pushed away from the table and began walking round the diameter of the circle, passing behind the backs of the gathered witches. He didn’t even notice when all conversation stopped, as he approached Manon and leaned in, his hand landing on the small of her back. As twelve pairs of eyes turned to him.

He ran a finger slowly up her arm, from elbow to shoulder, the ice tickling her skin. Then let go.

She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Nothing, just stared right ahead.

He looked at her face, her profile, studying her. After a second, her throat bobbed, and he felt her take in a breath; desperate, yet restrained, unnoticed by anyone else. A wicked smile curled one side of his lips, and then he was gone.

All eyes were on her now, on what they’d just witnessed. What they could smell in the room.

Sorrel tipped her head to one side, pondering whether she should say something, but a tight cough broke the silence instead, and Asterin gave her cousin a small nudge with her elbow. “ _Anyway_. As I was saying…”

* * *

An hour or two later - after she deemed the meeting over - Manon found herself walking down a dimly lit hallway of the castle, running her iron nails along the dry, dusty stone wall. The noise rippled around her, reminding her of the sound her armour had made on the blacksmiths whetstone in Morath. That hellhole, where she had unwittingly helped Perrington – _Erawan_ –  in his evil pursuits. Where the Yellowlegs clan had been violated and discarded. Where Elide Lochan had come dangerously close to being brutalised.

Where she had fought her own grandmother, and fled for her life.

A shiver ran down her spine.

She retracted her nails, and continued her journey in silence. The castle, which had once been a stronghold of a fearsome witch, was dark and cold, but still had enough flourishes of decoration and luxury about it to make it feel quite impressive. Gold torch holders dotted the walls; their elaborate branches now coated in spider webs and grime. Manon sighed, staring up at a faded painting of the once proud owner. This place had belonged to one of her ancestors, somewhere down the line. She looked a little similar; same hair, small flecks of gold embellishing her eyes. She felt a swell of pride, determination. She _must_ return the witch kingdom to prosperity.

The door to the room Dorian had claimed when they arrived was closed, with only a faint strip of light slicing through the darkness at the bottom. She grasped the handle, its cold black iron sending a chill up her arm. She pressed her forehead lightly against the wood, and breathed. Waited.

She hadn’t intended on coming to this door. After the boy kings little display of power in front of her clan, she’d wanted to disappoint him, wanted to have him go to bed sulking that his lover wasn’t going to indulge him tonight. But here she was, unable to fight the pull of this man.

She entered the room.

It was big, yet warm, inviting, and filled with grand furniture and paintings of more witches who looked proud, almost regal in their elaborately decorated cloaks. Dust sheets were pooled on the floor below; Dorian must have torn them down when he entered. The candles, which were a mere couple of inches away from burning out, illuminated the space, the bed. The empty bed. She frowned.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up,” came a voice from behind her.

She smirked and turned slowly, just as Dorian pushed the door closed from his place behind it, his strong hands sending whispers of ice along the wood grain. The door clicked and he turned the key in the lock, his sapphire eyes holding hers.

“Hello, princeling,” she said slowly, licking her lips.

“Hello, witchling,” he replied with such a deep, guttural voice, her knees nearly gave way beneath her. “Shall we talk first, or…?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On how badly you want me.”

He snarled, and curled his lip. Goosebumps rose all over her body. He stood in semi-darkness at the door, his black hair shining as it caught the flickering candlelight, but he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. With just a look, his magic unclasped her red cloak, sending it billowing to the floor.

She glanced over her shoulder and snorted, “That it?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started, witch.”

Her body tingled at his words. “I do hope you’re not all talk, prince,” she taunted him, “I don’t like to be left unsatisfied.” She licked her lips again and ran her thumb back and forth across her fingertips, “Otherwise I’ll just have to take care of myself.” She went to move her hand to the waistband of her trousers, but before she could touch it, an invisible force grasped her wrist. Her eyes flicked back to her paramour.

Dorian stalked towards her, his magic hands slowly lowering her arm to her side and keeping the other in place, too, and stopped in front of her. “ _I_ decide when, and how you are satisfied.” He inhaled her scent, his breath shuddering at the enticing aroma. “So the question is really; how badly do you want _me?_ ” He lifted her chin, bringing those eyes of vibrant gold to him. “Hmm?”

It wasn’t often that Manon Blackbeak was speechless, but as his cold, biting magic began to entangle her body, she could only gasp a breath. This feeling was so new to her, this feeling of wanting to be touched by him, to give herself completely to him. His piercing eyes studied every curve of her face, as his magic gripped tighter.

“Dor-”

“Tell me,” he breathed.

“I…I.”

He bit his lower lip, taking his time to drag it away from his teeth. He could feel her heart pounding against him, feel her body warming. Her lips parted ever so slightly, and before she could say anything else, he covered them with his own. The kiss was needy, desperate, like neither of them had ever really felt a kiss before. She certainly hadn’t, not like this. Tiny snowflakes of his magic seemed to manifest against her skin as his tongue savoured hers. He pulled away, and looked at her once more. “How badly do you want me to do that again?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and nodded, “Very badly.”

He obliged, kissing her deeply. When they parted, his hand fell against her cheek, and he sighed as she relaxed into his touch, turning her face into his palm. His other hand began exploring her body, running along her arm and down her exposed neck. A bead of sweat ran down it, and he leaned in, nuzzling into it and placing kisses slowly…so damn achingly slowly, against her skin.

She tilted her head back just as a groan escaped her lips, and he dropped both hands onto her waist, gripping tightly. His kisses moved to the other side of her neck, and his touch slid up to her breasts.

The sound that resonated from her mouth was feral, wild…unexpected. He laughed against her skin and crawled his fingers up to the edge of her white shirt, pulling it down to truly expose her beautiful, otherworldly skin. He ran his tongue along the top of her cleavage and whispered, “Should I continue?”

“Yes,” she gasped, as he clutched both sides of the shirt in his fists and ripped it clean apart. “Yes.”

“Yes, _what?”_

He took her breasts in his hands and squeezed just enough. “Yes, please…” Another firm, but pleasurable squeeze. “ _Dorian_.”

That was it. He moaned with his own pent up desire and rolled his neck, releasing the magical restraints just as he grasped her backside and lifted her off the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist as their lips met in a clash of ice and iron, lust and yearning. Her hands ran all over his face and into his hair, as they explored each other’s mouths, and he walked them over to the bed.

He threw her down, and for a split second, a small part of him wondered if that was too much, too aggressive, but she purred with absolute want, her gold eyes sparkling at him as he stood above her, lit by candlelight. He grinned and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Allow me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He thought for a moment, then nodded once.

She pushed herself up to reach him and extended an iron nail, swiping up his dirtied white shirt and cutting it open. His chest was so well defined, so beautifully tanned. How she had missed him these past few days travelling.

She didn’t have time to think too long about it, before he used his magic to unbuckle and remove her trousers and dropped to his knees. She fell back against the sheets as he ran his hands up the insides of her thighs, and pushed them far apart. He lowered himself down and winked at her, her beautiful smile all the signal he needed to continue. As he began to taste her, the world ceased to exist.

* * *

Bands of morning sunlight warmed the sheets that covered their bare skin, gently awakening them in the hazy surroundings of the bedroom.

Dorian was the first to open his eyes, and as he shifted a little to loosen his muscles, Manon’s sleepy hold across his chest tensed. He smiled and lightly pushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her skin was flawless, and almost unnaturally white, as if not a single ray of sunshine had ever caressed it.

He had never seen any human woman look as peaceful as the witch did right now. The witch with the iron teeth and claws. He blushed, remembering how those teeth had left faint scratches against his neck. He began to raise his hand to the marks, but she stirred, pulling his focus.

“Good morning,” she sighed, opening one eye.

“It certainly is,” he replied with a smile, and watched as she sat up. “Sleep well?”

“Mmhm.” She stretched a little and threw a side-eyed smirked at him, “And you were sleeping like the dead, prince.”

He dropped his head and laughed, “What can I say? I was worn out.”

She joined in the laughter until it faded away, leaving them staring at each other as the morning chorus of birdsong filled the quiet. Her eyes drifted down to his neck, before quickly returning to his face. His features were soft, his blue-black hair ruffled and spiked in places. “Dorian,” she breathed, and shuffled a bit closer. He met her halfway and leaned in to share a soft, tender kiss, so unlike their wild, impatient kisses last night. When they parted, she dropped a hand on his firm chest and slowly, delicately dragged her nails down the bare skin.

The iron claws barely appeared behind her nails, scarcely grazed his skin. He held back a groan of pleasure and took hold of her hand. “Show me.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“I want to see the power you hold in your fingertips.”

Those sapphire eyes were pleading, as he moved his grip to hold her lightly by the wrist. She conceded, extending her hand and fanning her fingers out as the iron claws slowly protruded from them. The sunlight caught the long, fine metal talons, the glint dazzling them both.

He studied them, in awe of their strength, and the fear they awakened in humans…in himself. He was pensive as he spoke, “Incredible, so incredible. And the teeth…will you show me those, too?”

“Dorian, I -”

“You did last night.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Hearing your whisper my name, _scream_ it in those final moments, through those iron teeth…I can’t begin to describe how that felt-”

“I did that so you would remember who you are,” she interrupted, her voice clipped, emotionless. She sat up, her back going rigid. “So you would remember that you are Dorian Havilliard.”

“What?” he scowled, and pushed himself up against the headboard. “I don’t understand. I know who I am.”  

“When I said your name, I could feel it’s effect all over you.” Dorian’s confusion was written all over his face. She twisted round to face him fully, crossing her legs beneath the sheets. “When we’re close, when my iron is against your skin, the thing inside you backs away, afraid.”

“But…but it’s not there anymore, Manon, I -”

She pointed at his neck, her claw still visible. “That collar says otherwise.”

Without thinking, and thoroughly expecting to find nothing but bruised skin, he lifted his hand to his neck. His fingers shuddered at the cold stone that greeted him, almost throbbing with its dark power.

Dorian’s entire world began to twist out of shape.

“No,” he gasped, tapping his fingers along the stone, disbelieving, “Manon, I broke this…I _broke_ it.”

“What are you talking about?” she frowned, “It’s been there all the time I’ve known you.”

“No, no, it _hasn’t!”_ he winced, wrapping his fingers around the stone and trying to wrench it off. “Chaol and Celaen… _Aelin_ …they…” He sucked in air through his teeth, his fingers struggling to maintain a grip on the smooth surface. “It broke and I killed my father.”

“Your _father?”_ Manon echoed, “What are -” Words failed her and all the witch could do was watch through tired eyes, shaking her head as Dorian tried and tried and tried to free himself from the inky black shackle around his neck. All she could do was watch as he shifted to his knees on the bed, his naked body tense with worry, with frustration, and confusion. He clawed and clawed at the collar, leaving red scratches against his neck far worse than what she had ever done.

And all the while, he whimpered.

It was possibly the worst sound Manon Blackbeak had ever heard in her one hundred and sixteen years of life. He whined in desperation to be free, as if he had experienced the relief of his freedom from the blackness inside and was fighting to get it back. Tears ran down his cheeks, tears of sadness and confusion…of pain as he tried to force down a lump that was now lodged in his throat, now held back by the tight Wyrdstone collar.

“I don’t u…understand,” he stuttered, still refusing to give in. His knuckles were now white, his fingers bleeding.

She didn’t know why he was suddenly acting like this; nothing had changed. That collar had been around his neck since before they’d met, and her presence provided him with relief, a break from the torment. “Let me…” she said, trying to cover his hands, hopeful of maybe prising the collar off with her iron claws.

“No! Get away from it!” he snapped, knocking her hand away and leaping from the bed.

“Dorian,” she said as calmly as she could manage in her shock at his reaction. She pressed a hand against her chest and felt the quickening beat of her heart. That was an unusual feeling, to say the least. “I don’t think it’s coming off.”

He wasn’t listening, he was too busy searching for his trousers. And that’s when he realised; gone were the old dusty walls of the weathered castle, along with the grand furniture and paintings of his lover’s ancestors. Gone were the sandy-coloured dust sheets that littered the floor. All he could see around him were piles and piles of books. Books everywhere; on the desk, under clothes, huge stacks of them on the floor. His hands went up into his hair as he blinked and spotted The Walking Dead on top of a heap. “No! No! No!” he cried. He was in his castle chambers in Rifthold. He peered out of the nearest window. The glass castle shone bright in the morning sun. “I demolished it! I razed it to the damn ground!”

Manon frowned, then grabbed the sheet and scrambled off the bed, tying the material around her as she began to walk towards him, but he held up a hand, halting her in her tracks.

“Don’t,” he said, his eyes wide, “Stay back.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” she scoffed and threw her hand behind her towards the untidy bed, “We had sex last night, Dorian, it was acceptable for us to be close _then_!” She moved a step closer, and he moved a step back.

“Manon, I mean it,” he growled, “I don’t know how much longer this _thing_ inside me will stay down, or how the hell I ended up back _here_ , but until I get this damn collar off I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

At that moment, a sharp pain hit him right in the stomach, dropping him to his knees.

“ _Mother_ ,” the witch gasped, as she reached forward to aid him. “Dorian!”

A strange shrieking noise escaped the prince’s lips, and he grabbed at his body, as if trying to hold back the monster within. It pounded and pounded against the inside of him, demanding to be let out. Manon looked on in horror as blackness swelled under her lover’s tanned skin like a creature swimming below ice, and leeched across his chest and around his heart. His blood vessels were suddenly stained black, his skin draining of all that beautiful colour.

“Dorian…” she said, her voice breaking. She wasn’t used to this feeling of helplessness.

He lifted his eyes to her. The sapphire was disappearing, the darkness taking over every inch of him. “Leave…” he gasped through the pain, “Get away from me…from it.”

“No. If anything, _I_ am the one who can keep _that_ at bay…” She swallowed her emotions and took one more defiant step forward, “Or have you forgotten, princeling?”

For a moment, the pain and the screaming stopped, and the vivid blue of Dorian’s eyes returned, piercing her soul. “I’m sorry I’m not strong e…enough.”

“No…” Manon whispered, sharp, salty tears stinging her eyes, “Do _not_ say that.”

“I’m sorry, my dar…my darling witchli-” His words were replaced by horrific screams as the blackness finally won the battle. Excruciating pain shot through his body, arching his back and burning out the colour in his eyes once and for all. He screamed louder and louder, his fingers convulsing before the evil lurched him forward onto his hands and knees, gasping desperately for air. He pounded his fists on the wooden floor, making the ground shudder.

Then silence. Stillness.

Manon listened for a breath, watched for movement. The next thirty seconds or so were unbearable. Then he twitched, and began to move.

“I won’t leave you, Dorian Havilliard,” she said, defiantly, as he lifted his head to her. “Dorian, crown prince of Adarlan, stubborn bastard…” She looked into his eyes, and had to hold herself back from gaping. It was like staring at a night sky where all the stars had been cruelly stolen; empty…void of life.

A wicked laugh bubbled up from deep inside him…inside _it_. It laughed at the sadness written across her face, at her hands that now shook in the presence of the demon prince at her feet. “Get out, before I make you regret it, _witch_ ,” the darkness sneered.

“No.”

Slowly it rose to its feet, unconcerned with its nakedness, and stalked towards her, looking her up and down. Its muscular frame towered over her. “You dare to defy me, as you stand there wearing nothing but my sheets?”

“They’re not yours,” she hissed.

That laugh rumbled again, sending tremors through her entire body. She glanced down. She’d never allowed herself to be this vulnerable in front of a man. Dorian had been the exception, but this wasn’t Dorian before her, not now.

“Go. Take your rusty claws and get out of my castle.”

“I will _not_ leave him,” she replied, clutching the sheet tighter in her hands.

“Your prince is dead, my dear. But very well, if you insist on staying,” the deep, sinister voice said. “Perhaps I could make you _my_ companion, instead?” it asked, and stroked the back of its finger sensually down her cheek.

For a brief moment she found herself swept away by Dorian’s touch; warm against her skin, but prickling with ice beneath. Then she stopped. She smacked the cold hand away and glared at the Valg prince with her eyes of gold. She could’ve sworn it moved back an inch. “I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than see them as black as yours.”

“Oh, Manon, Manon, Manon,” it tutted, “That would be _such_ a waste.” It pouted in mock sadness before turning and walking away from her.

With its back to her, she took the opportunity to scan the room for her clothes, spotting them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Her eyes remained locked on the demon prince as she inched towards them, and slowly reached down to pick them up.

The demon was now thumbing through one or two of Dorian’s copious amount of books, its sneers of contempt loud and obnoxious to Manon’s ears. Who the hell did this _thing_ think it was? Death, that’s what. Her heart ached; she wanted her princeling back. How had the Valg managed to seize control of Dorian’s entire being, when she had been so close? The blackness inside him had curled up into a tiny ball, getting as far away from her as it could manage when she’d approached Dorian in Oakwald Forest. But now…

She threw on her shirt and trousers as quickly as she could, praying to the three-faced goddess that the Valg wouldn’t turn around and see her half-dressed. She needed to feel strong in its presence, keep the upper hand, and being naked encouraged its black, lifeless gaze to drift south. She wasn’t going to be anybody’s plaything.

It turned around just as she fastened the clasp of her red cloak, and gave her another full-body scan. “No more fun, then?”

“You wish,” she folded her arms, “But give Dorian back to me and that’s a different story.”

It laughed under its breath, and scooped up its host’s trousers, stepping into them slowly, suggestively. “I don’t know why you care so much about him, truth be told.” Its voice seemed deeper suddenly, echoing around the room, even though it wasn’t shouting.

Was it because she was now a good twenty feet away?

“He was _weak_ ,” the demon sneered, picking up another book and glancing at the cover. “He was soft, and kind, and a disappointment to his father.”

“And you, meanwhile, are a bad little demon prince, right?”

“I am everything he is not.”

“You got that right,” the witch smirked, and planted her feet firmly on the floor.

“And I’m everything he once was, too. I have his memories,” it smiled…and the voice changed, the echo stopping. It sounded like Dorian was back in the room. “Fat lot of good they do me though, really. Who honestly cares about the crown prince? Hmm? Where are all his friends when he needs them? Where’s Celaena…” It was as if he was mocking himself, “Or Chaol? Or _Sorscha?_ ”

Manon’s lip twitched. She’d heard _that_ name before.

Dorian… _no_ , the Valg, grinned at her, and began walking towards her. Its long, slender fingertips – fingertips that had caressed her skin only a few hours before – brushed along the tops of the book piles, running lines through the dust. Then it knocked one off. And another. And another. Its pace quickened, and then it was right in front of her, breathing in her expelled air. That sensual voice of her lover was barely a whisper, “All I care about is…you.”

“Oh shut up,” she groaned, and twisted to turn away.

It grabbed her, its fingers digging into her arms as it turned her back to face it. “Do you know why you’re here, Manon Blackbeak?”

She licked her lips and shirked him off, “Because Dorian asked me to come.”

It shook its head, the demon voice returning with an ice-cold edge, “No… _I_ asked you to come.” It pointed to the window, “Just like I have done each and every time you’ve flown your runt of a wyvern to this tower and tapped on that glass. You saw Dorian open the window for you, let you in…kiss you, but no, it was by _my_ instruction.”

“You’re lying,” she breathed, her focus darting all over that face she had studied in minute detail. The face that now looked like death reanimated.

“You wish,” the demon winked at her, those black eyes sucking the warmth from the room.

 _Mother_ , how she wished it were Dorian winking at her, instead. Her heart fluttered.

“I’ve been waiting, observing…learning all about you. All about that blood of yours that made me tremble like a frightened child, in the forest that fateful night. Each and every time you and your precious prince were together, naked and vulnerable, I stole a piece of your power, your strength. I took what was invisible and shaped it into my own might. And now, _witch_ …” It leaned in close, so close, its mouth stopping beside her ear. “Now you have no effect on me, whatsoever.”

She felt her skin crawl. A ripple of night and despair came over her. _How?_ How could this possibly have happened? Her desire for Dorian; her belief that she could keep him free of the darkness by being with him, loving him…it had all played right into the hands of the evil that taunted her now.

The demon prince ran its fingertips along her neck and gently moved her long moon-white hair out the way. Those black eyes watched her frown, watched it deepen as the revelation sank in. Then slowly, it leaned in further until its lips were pressed against the skin below her ear, and kissed her. Its other hand gripped her neck at the other side, holding her still as it claimed the weak prince’s love as its own. “We could rule this world, if you let me in,” it breathed against her skin, its voice impossibly deep and unnatural, “Together, we would be unstoppable.”

It kissed her again, this time on her jaw, then her cheek, then the edge of her mouth, each time slower, and more consuming than the last.

The demon expected her to resist, but she was still trying to comprehend what had happened; the hope she’d had when Dorian was above her, loving her, and she couldn’t help but steal glances at that collar. _Hope_. She had felt so confidence that her presence, her love would keep Dorian safely within his own body; keep him holding on, like a firm grip preventing him from falling over a cliff edge.  

“Manon,” said the voice of her lover.

She lifted her golden eyes to his. Sapphire shone brightly. “D…Dorian?”

He smiled and immediately pressed his lips against hers, their eyes falling shut. His tongue brushed across the crease of her lips, and before she could think about it, she was allowing him in, opening her mouth to him. His arms slipped down her back, pulling her in closer as their kiss heated up, as he began to tug at her clothes.

Her breathing came in short gasps when they parted, his kiss falling onto her neck. She ran her fingers through his thick dark hair, and dropped her head back as he pressed firmly against her. He growled softly and moved to nibble her ear, and she opened her eyes…

Darkness. A rush of black swept into her golden irises, filling her world with sorrow. She blinked. It was gone.

He growled again; a low, hungry noise, his hands pulling at the waistband of her trousers.

She gasped and pushed his shoulders with all her might. He stumbled back a step, panting…grinning. Those empty eyes had returned. “You bastard.” She flung her hand out, extending her iron claws in an instant, and swiped for its jugular.

The Valg prince grabbed her wrist mere inches from certain death, and squeezed hard. “I guess neither of us are going to get what we want, today.” She struggled against its grip and it laughed, “And the more time I spend with you here…the more I’m getting tired of you, witch.”

She yanked her arm again, desperate to free herself, but that grip was solid. “Let go of me, and I’ll get out of your way, then,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I think we’re past that, now.” It tugged her closer so their noses almost touched, and hissed, “But I know someone who’d like to meet you.”

Her stomach dropped. “Dorian,” she said, as the demon spun her around and wrestled hold of both her arms, “Dorian, if you’re still in there somewhere, I’m sorry. I tried.” It shoved her and she lurched forwards, wincing at the might of its grip. “I tried.”

“You can call his name as many times as you want, but he won’t remember it, or you. He is gone, and I am growing stronger by the minute.” It pushed her again and they left the room.

The journey through the glass castle was long, winding, and very confusing. The castle was like a maze to an outsider, but the demon prince seemed to know where he was going.

* * *

Flickers of light dipped in and out of the shadows within the prince’s body. The body that was now fully controlled by the darkness. He could hear a woman calling a name; was it _his_ name? He didn’t know. She sounded distressed, maybe even in pain. He wanted to reach through the black and take hold of her hand, console her, but the demon kept him pressed against the very edge of existence, it’s invisible grip tight around his neck. His _neck_. Visions of scratching at black stone appeared somewhere in his memory. The feeling of bleeding fingers, the sound of whimpering… _his_ whimpering.

He wrapped his strength around the demon’s hold, trying to prise it off his throat. He could still hear the woman saying that name, over and over and over again. He…no, the _darkness_ , slapped her hard on the side of her face and screamed for her to be quiet. His entire being throbbed with the shockwave. The woman fell silent, and the sound of shuffling feet on an echoing stone floor resonated. Then that sound turned hollow…as if walking on glass.

The woman – the witch, as his captor kept calling her – was strong, defiant. The demon had to push with all it’s might to keep her moving, keep her hands in its grasp. The flash of iron as she’d tried to kill it had been a welcome sight. If he was to remain a prisoner in his own body, he would rather die than have others perish by his hand. He’d choke the life out of himself if he had to, just for it to be over.

* * *

The Valg prince approached the red glass double doors of the throne room, elbowing Manon to keep going forward, and nodded to the black-eyed guards standing eerily still on either side. Without hesitation, they opened the doors, and stood back to let them through. They stared at the prince, barefoot and bare-chested, and Manon noticed them wince with pain when she got close. It was written all over their faces.

The throne room was vast, and maybe even breath-taking if she were being honest. A deep red carpet extended the full length of the space, between highly decorated glass columns that diffused the bright sunlight that burst in through the glass walls; the city beyond creating a living, breathing mural. It was a view from which to scoff at those unfortunate enough to be born poor, or those who liked to pretend they shared the same social standing as their king. _Idiots_.  

More soulless guards stood at regular intervals between the columns and along the edges of the room. The King of Adarlan sat squinting at the approaching pair from his throne at the far end, his large hands curled over the edges of the arms. He wore polished armour of an intricate, scaled design, with a wyvern standing proud on the breastplate.

“Oh, father!” the Valg sang as they strode down the carpet towards the dais, and the king shifted forward in his seat, “Surprise!”

It shoved Manon with every inch of its strength, sending her hurtling forward until she fell to her hands and knees. The crack of her bones on impact with the hard floor echoed around the cavernous room. She kept her head down for a moment to hide the pain behind her white hair, and her focus fell on the king’s feet. The demon fired some of her lover’s magic at her, the invisible hands snatching hold of her wrists and yanking her arms back behind her, forcing her to sit upright. For a second she could’ve sworn she felt Dorian’s thumb brush across hers.

The king didn’t say a word, but rose from his throne with regal, powerful motion and stepped down off the dais. He stopped in front of her, glanced at the face of his possessed son, then back at her. “Is this the witch my boy has been screwing?”

The Valg prince came to a stop beside her and smirked, “Yes.”

“Manon Blackbeak,” the king said under his breath. She could feel his eyes running all over her. “How often?”

Her skin crawled. Being spoken about like she was a breeding dog made her blood boil.

The interloper shrugged, “Enough.”

“Really…” the king replied, his voice light…impressed. He looked at the bare-chested shadow of his son and nodded, “Good boy, taking as much as he could get before the darkness took over.”

“He certainly played his part well.”

“Indeed. So she doesn’t pose a problem to you anymore?”

“No” the Valg said casually, his eyes slipping across to her and hoping for a reaction. “Her power over me is diminished.”

Silence fell for a moment while the king considered this development. Finally, he spoke again, and stared down at the top of her head, “Are you mute, Blackbeak heir?”

Manon remained silent, pondering whether she should indulge him in conversation. “What do you want me to say, _your highness?”_ she hissed, finally raising her head to look him straight in the eye.

“Well, how about thanking me for allowing you to sneak your oversized lizard to my son’s window night, after night, after night? Hmm?” His eyebrows shot up, above his eyes that were unnaturally black, but not wholly so. Perhaps that was worse than Dorian’s situation.

Now it was her turn to shrug.

“I could’ve had you shot down.”

“And I could gut you like a fish,” she stated, her face impassive, her body steady.

The king laughed under his breath and said to the demon wearing her princeling’s body, “I can see why he liked her -”

“His _name_ is Dorian,” she interrupted. Her heart was pounding, perhaps in warning.

“What did you say?”

“Your son’s name is _Dorian!_ ” she yelled. The guards shifted uncomfortably all around them, their swords clinking and betraying their movement. “Dorian Havilliard, crown prince of Adarlan and heir to this godsforsaken place!” She tipped her head to one side. “Or have you forgotten that already?”

The kings lip curled, and then, without warning, he slapped her hard across the face, jolting her head sideways. The force was greater than any Ironteeth punishment she’d ever received, or dished out, and left her entire face sizzling with pain.

“ _Insolent witch!_ ” he roared as he leaned down and grabbed her hair, jerking her head back to him.

She held back a gasp of pain - not wanting to give him the satisfaction - and breathed in and out through her nose instead, as he pulled her hair again, lifting her face closer.

She glared at him with her golden eyes, then spat out a drop of blue blood on the pristine carpet by his feet, much to his outrage. He didn’t seem to be badly affected by her witch blood, though she felt a throng of his dark power pushing against her.

He tugged on the hair in his grasp once more. “You are nothing more than a serf to me and my kingdom, and yet you _dare_ to speak to me like _that_ , Blackbeak? What _would_ the Matron think?”

She murmured an obscenity and he let go, giving her a swift kick to her ribs and watching as her body went limp. The Valg prince immediately tightened the magical restraints, forcing her upwards until she was as straight as she could be whilst remaining on her knees. She winced with the sharp pains that flooded her body, and licked a drop of blood that had burst from her lip.

“ _Answer him!_ ” the demon commanded.

“I don’t care _what_ she thinks! And I don’t care about you, _your highness_ , _or_ your cause!” Manon yelled, her attention jumping back and forth between demon father and son, “All I care about is Dorian! The man you encased in that walking tomb!”

“Silence!” The king slapped her harder, on the other side of her face, leaving a long cut on her cheek. He sneered at the sight of the blue blood running down her porcelain skin, and began twisting the black Wyrdstone ring around his finger.

Manon steadied herself with the aid of the invisible hands…hands that suddenly seemed kinder, more gentle around her wrists. She scowled briefly, then returned her face to neutral.

* * *

A pulsing sound. A throbbing in his ears…far away, but fast approaching. Stone reacting to stone. It stirred him from slumber, but it wasn’t what kept him there, awake, alive. The witch called that name again…and he knew it. He knew her, too.

The demon that enveloped him, that seeped into every part of him, kept him held down, it’s hand was still around his neck. The crush against him was getting stronger by the second, and he knew he didn’t have much time. But that _witch_. The monster turned to look at her, laughed at the pain grazed across her face, and stared down those eyes. Gold eyes. Lovers eyes. He didn’t know who he was, or what he had been, but he knew he had adored her, worshipped her…maybe still did, and from the way she spoke to the king, the way she took each strike to her face, it was clear that the feeling was mutual.

He threw himself at the edges of the darkness, launched himself at it with all his might. The end was near for him, and yet he wasn’t ready. There was something that needed to be done, first.

* * *

The Valg prince stepped an inch closer to Manon and almost stumbled, reacting like it’d been hit with a ball to the face. It covered its face with its hands and sucked in a breath. The king drew its focus and glowered, but the witch didn’t move, didn’t even look at it.

“What’s wrong?” the king asked.

“Nothing, father,” the demon replied with its unnerving voice, shaking off the strange feeling. He felt her steely gaze and gestured to her with his chin, “What are we going to do with _her?_ ”

The king crouched down and clasped her chin, turning her head side to side, observing the bruises that were already beginning to shine on both cheeks, “Well,” he grinned, releasing her and standing up. “I’ve half a mind to send her back to Morath and her merry band of flying spinsters, and let the Blackbeak Matron deal with her -”

Manon’s eyes flitted up to the Valg prince. “Yes, you do that. And I could take _him_ off your hands, too,” she smirked, as another trickle of blood ran down from her lip and dropped off her chin. She was getting desperate for this to end now, her words laced with sarcasm and anger.

“Why do you give a damn about him, Blackbeak?” the king scoffed, arms outstretched, “Why not just leave, run away when you had the chance?“

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told your demon pet…I will _not_ leave without Dorian. He is ten times the man you’ll ever be…or ever were, _your highness_.” A lick of ice ran down her spine in response. The touch warmed her.

The king scowled, “I thought your kind didn’t concern yourselves with friendship, let alone love? You got what you wanted from my son - a warm body on a cold night – everything else is surely futile to you heartless creatures.”

Right on cue, Manon felt her heart thump violently in her chest. She growled, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and dropped her head, “You turn your son into the walking dead, and have the balls to tell me _I’m_ heartless?!”

“Watch your tongue, witch!” the demon prince shouted, and pulled the invisible restraints tighter, tighter, tighter, until her arms began to lose all feeling. “Or I will cut it out.” He turned his body to her and lifted his hand, then began to pinch his thumb and fingers together.

Manon felt the ice snake around her neck immediately, twisting round and round her and squeezing, constricting her breathing. Her eyes bulged as she choked, but they remained fixed on the Valg. His eyes, meanwhile, were full of joy at the witch’s predicament. He squeezed harder.

Her eyes began to roll back in her head, and her already pale skin turned deathly white.

“All right, that’s enough,” the king commanded.

The prince released the binding from her throat and she gasped for breath, coughing and spluttering and tasting a burning sensation deep in her throat. She looked at the demon again. “Y…you bastard.”

“We send her back,” the king boomed, ignoring her, “With the order to execute. The Blackbeak Matron will be _very_ disappointed to lose her clan heir, but more than happy to carry out the sentence.”

“On wh…what charges do you condemn me, _your highness?”_ she sneered between coughs.

The king looked at her, “Failing to follow orders. Trespassing on the sacred ground of your king’s home. And abandoning your clan, to name a few.”

She scoffed, but her stomach dropped. She didn’t want to go back to Morath and face the Matron. She didn’t want to leave this place, knowing that Dorian would forever be trapped inside his own body, held down by a monster, and used for evil. _No_. She knew what she needed to do, even if it got her killed.

The king cupped his chin in one hand and tapped his finger on his cheek, “Oh, and who can forget sleeping with the crown prince?”

“You’d sentence me to death for _that?_ ” she rumbled.

“Others have died for a lot less,” the king smirked, “But mainly, I just don’t like you, witch.”

She curled her lip up and snarled like a wolf.

The demon shook his head, its hands trembling with pent up magic and anger and worry, and blurted, “I’m bored of her, father. Who cares about the crone, this ends now!”

That was the final push. “Do it, then!” she cried though the pain in her throat, turning to the possessed face of her lover, and shoving her shoulders forward, “Finish this, or are you still all talk?”

It pointed a pale finger at her and growled a deep, unnerving sound that made her shiver. “You _will_ die tonight, witch, make no mistake.”

“You take the body of Dorian Havilliard and _waste_ it, demon!” She shook once with incredible anger, released her razor-sharp iron teeth and screamed, “ _Finish this!!”_

It lowered its head to her, reached out to grab her by the collar of her cloak, and screeched. Pain struck it right in the temple. Its head snapped to her and it pulled her close. “Take me with you,” Dorian whispered in her ear, his eyes bright and blue, before he was gone again. The demon jumped backwards and looked at her, incredulous.

Her mouth turned up in a wry smile, and that was it.  With the Valg’s attention taken by Dorian’s sudden reappearance, the magic constricting her wrists and distorting her arms slackened off, and she leaped to her feet, claws extending as she broke free of the binds and lashed out at the king’s armoured chest. Iron against iron, sparks flew. She kicked him, mimicking his actions from earlier. The king cried out and stumbled backwards, and the guards rushed over, swords drawn, ready for the fight.

One witch. Twenty guards. No chance.

The first one to reach her ran at full speed, both arms up, ready to strike her down with the sword in its grip. Manon simply lunged forward, and swiped at its throat, stopping it in its tracks. The spray of black blood arced over them both as the guard toppled backwards, grasping at the wound. The stench turned her stomach.

Immediately, she spun around and launched herself at another, this time plunging her claws through its light armour and into its shoulders. It screamed in agony, it’s voice echoing around the room, until she ripped its throat out with her iron teeth. She retracted her claws and let it drop to the floor with a thud, then spat out the lump of flesh and sour-tasting blood.

From all angles the demons came at her, swinging their swords and fighting against their black hearts that cowered in her presence, that begged them to keep away, but they were no competition. She clawed and chewed and spat out each and every one, black and blue blood running down the sides of her mouth, black dripping down her iron nails, giving her a truly terrifying appearance to those still standing.

She moved with such grace, such fluidity, that even the king, who was still sprawled on the stairs, was silently impressed. “Kill her!” he yelled to his men, but hope was fading.

She glanced to her right. The Valg prince wearing her lover’s body was wrestling with the man inside. She knew Dorian was disappearing, that he would soon be gone, but this was his last stand, his final chance to do something. She wasn’t going to let him down.

* * *

He thrashed and scratched and pounded the demon with all that he had left, dodging each swirl of evil power. When a tiny crack in the darkness appeared, he concentrated all of his energy on it. It was like standing at the bottom of a dry well, able to hear the voices of the people he loved echoing above him, out of sight, but near; not just the witch, but the blonde-haired woman who had surprised and delighted him when she lived in the castle, and the man who had been his protector, and his best friend since boyhood. Their voices awoke in him the power and strength to keep pushing, keep pounding at the evil that was consuming him.

He shoved at the sliver of light, shouldered it until what was left of his consciousness was aching, bone-tired. Finally, though, he broke through the barrier, and the witch’s voice was loud and defiant, tearing down the possessed guards that he could see clearly through the demon’s eyes…no, _his_ eyes. And his hands, _oh heavens_ , they tingled with such ice cold magic, he felt lightheaded.

* * *

Another guard threw himself at Manon, and she slid to the side, allowing him to stumble before she thrust her claws into his side, spun around to leap onto his back and clamped down on his neck with her iron teeth. The claws were withdrawn, then thrust in again, peppering the demon with holes that oozed black stinking blood. His cries were drowned out by the blood that rose up in his throat, and he fell face first onto the red carpet, joining the others in a mass of seeping, revolting black blood.

The king sat with his eyes wide, aghast at the sight of the pile of bodies, and watched as Manon coolly wiped the black and blue blood from her mouth, and smirked at him, “That’s going to leave a stain.”

Anger turned his face fiery red, and the king screamed and launched himself forward, grabbing a sword from his belt and charging at her. “You will pay, bitch!”

Without much effort, she turned and scooped up a sword from one of the dead guards, the hilt dripping with sticky blood, and swung round, meeting the kings charging sword with her own. The clash of metal on metal reverberated, and she couldn’t deny that the king was incredibly strong. They fought hard, evenly matched, it seemed; his strength balanced out by her speed and agility. Left and right, up and down, their swords clashed. Teeth gritted, eyes wide, the king’s black Wyrdstone ring throbbed with vicious, unrelenting anger.

He swiped for her and she leapt over the sword, spinning round to jab her weapon into his exposed side. She didn’t expect to plunge through flesh and bone, but the blood-curdling scream that erupted from the Valg prince’s lips drew the kings focus, and allowed her to skewer him.

The king fell to his knees, gasping for air. She must’ve pierced a lung. His face was one of pure shock, and mild acknowledgement of her skill. Manon pushed the sword in deeper, forcing him to the floor, and let go.

The Valg screamed again, and she whirled round to see it convulsing, icy magic coiling round it.

“Dorian!” she yelled, and ran to him.

It stumbled backwards, arms thrashing, eyes black one moment, vivid sapphire blue the next. Back and forth they went, as an internal battle was fought between the crown prince of Adarlan and the demon prince encased in the collar. It… _he_ … _Dorian,_ scratched at the inky black stone, fingers bleeding once more, bleeding red mixed with black. The image was extraordinary.

“Dorian,” Manon said once more, taking a slow step towards the prince. “Is it you?”

“Manon,” he gasped, throwing himself around like a ragdoll, “It’s winning! The d…darkness is winning!”

She moved closer, her hands outstretched. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. She already knew the answer.

“Kill it. End it now.”

She rolled her lips, and slammed her eyes shut just as a lone teardrop fell down her cheek. “I…I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Dorian wrestled with the demon, and the swirls of magic began to turn black, like ink dropped into a whirlpool. “Pl…please!” he cried out, “I can’t live like th…this!”

“Don’t!” the king screamed behind her. She turned around to see him pulling himself along the polished floor, streaks of blood trailing him. “Don’t you _dare_ touch him!”

Manon turned back, just in time to shift her head to the side, the demon prince swiping for her. She slipped out of its reach and slid across the floor onto her knees, grabbing up another discarded sword before pushing herself back up off the floor.

The Valg stalked towards her, it’s eyes turning black to blue to black. Dorian was still fighting.

With her entire body trembling with adrenaline and dread, she dove at him… _it_ , screaming until her voice broke, and knocked it onto its back. Its head hit the hard floor and an unnerving harpy-like screech escaped its lips, momentarily deafening her as she landed on top of it, straddling it.

It thrashed and kicked out, its strength depleted, and she hit it in the face with her elbow. The head snapped to one side, and she watched as slowly it turned back to face her.

The eyes. Those sapphire blue irises.

“Dorian?” she breathed. Her hands were shaking, nervous, but she retracted her nails and reached out, brushing her bloodied fingertips across his brow. “Is that you?”

He lifted his hand and gently wrapped it around her wrist, “My darling witchling,” he whispered.

She spluttered a cry of relief and touched his bare chest. It was freezing cold and deathly pale. She extended her nails just enough to scrape gently down from the Wyrdstone collar towards his heart. The blackness in his veins had subsided somewhat, but every beat of his heart pushed the darkness back out again. “Let me get you out of here.”

“No,” he said, squeezing a little tighter on her wrist.

“But Dorian, I can -”

“Manon…I’m not getting out of here.”

“Don’t say that,” she cried. Actually cried. Tears slipped down her long white eyelashes and tumbled down her cheeks, dampening her cloak. She whispered, “Please don’t say that.”

“The darkness has w…won.” He winced and the blackness flashed in his eyes. He concentrated every last drop of his remaining strength to push it back. “And I need this to be over, my darling.”

She rolled her lips as he squeezed again, his thumb brushing up and down the inside of her wrist. “You were never supposed to mean this much to me, you b…bastard,” she stuttered, her eyes catching the twinkling in his, “You and I were supposed to mean nothing to each other.”

“Strange how it works out sometimes, isn’t it?” he smiled.

 _Oh mother_ , that smile. She felt her heart melt as throngs of icy magic whirled around her, and tiny snowflakes fell on her skin. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” he breathed, and moved his hand to rest it against her heart. “This beats for me, Manon Blackbeak. I know it.”

“Stop being so poetic.”

He laughed softly, and delicately ran his fingertips down her chest, entwining them in her half-buttoned shirt. She went to cover his hand, but he recoiled, his fingers cramping up as the black seeped into him. “End it, and get away from here.”

She shook her head, tears still falling. “No, I can’t leave you. I _won’t_.”

“Manon,” he said, his voice stern, commanding. “End it. Please.”

She wiped her at her tears and tugged her eyes away from him. She reached out to her side and crawled her fingers along the floor to pick up a silver sword. Her hands shook violently as she took the hilt in both hands and stared at it.

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, but the demon released another screech from his lips, raising his head off the floor and slamming it back down with skull-cracking force. Dorian’s magic crackled around them, forcing the blackness back down once again. “I haven’t got anything left to fight it off.”

“Leave him alone!” the king shouted from behind them. “Leave him alone, _Blackbeak!_ Keep out of this!”

Manon’s heart thumped in her chest, and a lump lodged itself in her throat as she spoke over the king’s cries. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“Oh, my darling witchling,” he breathed, running his thumb across her cheek and wiping away a teardrop, “I love you.”

She dropped the sword beside him, leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his ice cold lips, her mouth lingering as her hands cradled his face. “For as long as there is blue blood coursing through my veins, I will love you, Dorian Havilliard, and I will honour you.”

She sat up and grasped the hilt in both hands, raising it high above her head, and whispered, “Goodbye, princeling.”

He nodded, and took a deep breath, “Goodbye witching. Come find me when you tire of this life.”

She bobbed her head, her vision now clouded by emotion. The black began to seep up his neck, under the collar and towards his face. He sucked in air through his teeth and she felt his body begin to shake as the Valg made one final attempt to break free.

The king let out a whimpering cry in desperation, but she didn’t hear it.

She lifted the sword higher, and in one sweeping motion, brought it down on his chest, piercing his heart, and screamed.

* * *

The scream died down and the sword clattered to the ground. Dorian sat bolt upright in bed. His heart was pounding, his chest heaving, and sweat ran down every sculpted muscle of his body in a torrent.

A kiss of cool air brushed his face and he looked around the room. Weathered stone walls, grand furniture, paintings of witches that looked eerily like her - his witchling. His hands went straight to his neck, prepared to touch the cold, smooth stone collar. Nothing. Just skin. He released a wilting breath of relief and covered his mouth with one hand.

A belt hung loosely over the back of a chair, and the sword that had fallen from it still rattled on the floor below, surrounded by dust sheets. _Wind-cleaver_.

“Good morning,” said a sleepy voice from over his shoulder.

He turned to find Manon Blackbeak lying beside him, still wearing her travelling clothes and red cloak.

“I didn’t think you were going to show up,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

She stretched, elongating her lithe body, and pressed her hand to his heart, feeling the pounding rhythm, the damp flesh. “You were fast asleep when I got here, the candles burned out, and you looked so peaceful…unlike now.” She frowned and pushed herself up until she was sitting in front of him. “Are you all right?”

He rolled his lips, fighting back the urge to weep, and covered her hand to hold it in place.

“Dorian?”

He felt the warmth of her touch seep into him, thawing him, awakening him from the darkness. He relaxed his shoulders and leaned forward, kissing her lips with delicate precision.

Her hands covered his cheeks, cradling him. “Did you have a nightmare, princeling?” she whispered against his mouth before kissing him. He nodded, and she felt a shiver run the length of his body, and hers. “You were back there, weren’t you? Back in Rifthold, back in the…in the _collar_.” Her eyes dropped to his neck and lingered there.

Dorian frowned. That was no simple look of empathy on her face, that was fear.  “Ma…Manon? Did you have it too?”

She rolled her lips and nodded once. “I killed you.” Her hand drifted up over her mouth and shook. Her whole body shook. She’d never felt such powerful emotions before, such burning pain at the thought of killing someone; she’d done it enough times. But _he_ wasn’t just anyone. “I watched you fade away, be replaced by that…that _thing_ , and then I killed you.”

“It wasn’t real,” he said, his sapphire eyes bright and clear, his hands covering hers. “I’m here, and I’m free.”

She spluttered a cry, and stroked her thumbs over his cheeks. His eyes watched her intently, gold reflected in sapphire. “Free,” she whispered, and glanced back down at the pale scar around his neck. “How do you think this happened?”

He dropped his hand and gently pressed it against her thumping heart. “I told you in the nightmare that this beats for me, Manon. I don’t think that part was false.” He covered his heart, “And mine does the same for you.”

Without a word, she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him and feeling his hands slip around her in response. “You are mine, Dorian Havilliard, king of Adarlan, and I will remind you of that until there isn’t a drop of blue blood in my veins.”

He held her closer, and clenched his eyes shut. A single tear dripped onto her cloak, and he breathed, “And you are mine, Manon Blackbeak; last Crochan queen, and my darling witchling.”


End file.
